


(No)Hero

by skyjacklegion



Series: more heroes [2]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Other, background/implied reaper76, mccree has a Bad Time and learns about people
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-30
Updated: 2016-07-30
Packaged: 2018-07-27 15:50:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7624612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skyjacklegion/pseuds/skyjacklegion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The thing is, Jesse McCree’s never supposed to be the hero. A side character in everyone else’s story, the bad kid who changed his ways. He’s a poster child for reformation, for discovering that your own brand of justice doesn’t have to be the wrong one. For taking a skill (killing people) and turning it into something good (killing other people).</p><p>He’s given a choice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(No)Hero

**Author's Note:**

> so basically i really like mccree

The thing is, Jesse McCree’s never supposed to be the hero. A side character in everyone else’s story, the  _ bad kid _ who changed his ways. He’s a poster child for reformation, for discovering that your own brand of justice doesn’t have to be the wrong one. For taking a skill (killing people) and turning it into something good (killing other people).

He’s given a choice. Cuffed to the table, slouched defiantly in a chair as Gabriel Reyes stood in front of him, dark eyed and strangely patient. He hadn’t bothered to sit, feet shoulder width apart, fucking  _ shotguns _ strapped to his side and Jesse McCree, sharpshooter and member of the Deadlock Gang, had-

He’d said yes. Rotting away in prison on charges of trafficking and murder isn't in his ten year plan.

If he’d known what’d come of it, he would’ve told Gabe to go fuck himself. Probably.

___

You don’t get as good as he is without being an arrogant prick sometimes. It comes with the territory of killing people for a living, or trafficking guns or whatever the fuck else he felt like doing at the time. He’s confident in his abilities, confident in himself and confident that he doesn’t give a shit about what’s going on.

Until.

It’s not a big moment, or some sort of life changing reveal. There’s no fanfare or skywriting or anything that makes him change his mind. It’s the little things. Lena’s enthusiasm, Reinhardt’s unending optimism even in the face of cleaning up after a war. Ana’s gentle strength, her daughter’s hand tight in her own, imaginary tea parties blocking out the sound of sniperfire and remembered death rattles. Torbjorn’s a bastard but he loves his work, treats his machines like children. There’s others, so many others that tear his preconceptions into little pieces, stomp on them and leave them in the dust.

Maybe that’s a good thing.

___

The Deadlock Gang (even  _ he _ winces sometimes when he says it) was useful for two things. One, it taught him economics and he found it easier to judge the ebb and flow of local and world politics than the average person and two? He could shoot. He was  _ good _ at it, far more accurate than he had any right to be and more than willing to change how he did things depending on the situation.

“A flash grenade?” He asks, squinting down at it dubiously. Gabe rolls his eyes, smacking him in the shoulder as he turns back towards the target. The whole fighting robots thing gets old after a while, but it’s better than nothing and he grudgingly admits he needs the training. He’d been getting soft, just carting weapons around and talking his way out of problems. Hadn’t been in a real fight in weeks.

“You’re not the only one to duck and roll, niño. Keeping your opponent off balance is the first rule of kicking ass.”

He feels like Overwatch had been doing nothing but keeping him off balance since the second he ‘joined’. Sneaky bastards.

___

Angela joins at the same time he does, and Jesse sort of hates her. She’s a doctor, she’s smart, she’s gorgeous. she’s saving people’s _lives_ and for the first month he has to wear a tracking bracelet, keyed to Gabe’s goddamn signature. He has to go find the man whenever he wants to shower. It’s _humiliating_.

“Just so you don’t go missing, brat.” Gabe says with a laugh every time, like he’s enjoying being an asshole. He probably is.

The hate’s irrational, honestly. He’s projecting and he knows it, his days achingly empty and there’s nothing to distract him from the fact that he’s supposed to be one of the _good_ guys now.

He and Angela are nearly the same age. They’re hiring fucking _teenagers_.

“You don’t have to like me.” Angela looks so serene it’s a wonder she hasn’t ascended to another plane of existence, one of Torbjorn’s prototype arms in her hand. He’d been assigned to help (Gabe had told him to make himself busy) and he was just itching for something to go wrong, for them to realise their mistake, to throw him back in a dark hole and throw away the key.

“I don’t not like you, darlin’.” He hedges, hat pulled down over his forehead, looking determinedly at the mechanics in front of him.

Angela’s laugh is melodic and sweet and Jesse has nowhere to put his anger.

__

“¿Qué te parece que estás haciendo, pendejo?” Gabe hisses, hand on one of his shotguns and the other clenched tightly in the back of Jesse’s shirt. Shaking him off would be a fucking chore so McCree doesn’t bother. He holds Peacemaker in a loose grip, the both of them watching Jack stride in the front doors, hands raised, his stupid fucking jacket billowing in the wind. He’d heard the argument from the other car, Jack’s voice calm and Gabe getting progressively angrier.

“Don’t fret your little head about it.” Jesse says, flinching a little at the sharp movement Gabe makes to hit the back of his head. Gabe’s eyes are on Jack’s back as he walks into a building full of fucking monsters without his rifle, not understanding, not able to  _ see _ . It’s a disaster. It’s the longest half hour Jesse’s spent in years.

Jack walks back out again, a satisfied smile on his face and blood leaking steadily from a cut on his temple. What’s worse, is he’s followed by a docile group of former insurgents who spend their time chatting and laughing with what sounds like  _ relief _ .

That's the difference between them, honestly. Gabe sitting in the shadows full of fury and anger and Jack risking his neck for the Right Thing.

__

Ana’s one of the kindest, gentlest people Jesse’s ever met. She shoots people for a living and that’s fine, so does he. He can’t judge someone for killing people, even if it’s from a distance. She’s the best sniper he’s ever seen, or not seen, as the case may have been but she’s also-

He can see the look in her eyes as she watches her daughter, barely ten, clambering all over Reinhardt and reaching out to steal his hat from on high. He watches as she turns away to hide the fond,  _ sad _ wave of emotion that passes over her face and he understands her, he thinks. He hopes.

Everyone has a limit.

__

The Right Thing’s a tenuous, awkward idea. When was the right time to do something? What was the right thing to do?

“The universe doesn’t care what we do.” Lena says to him one morning, hands shaking and flicking through the handle of her mug. The rig on her chest is bulky and awkward and she sits there, trying to hold her coffee cup, a half smile twisting her mouth. “Right, wrong, whatever decision you want t’make is yours, love. Sarnie and a beer for breakfast, chips for lunch, curry for dinner? Who cares? Shoot someone, don’t shoot someone, that's  _ your _ choice.”

She’s idealistic to the extreme but sometimes, just  _ sometimes _ , Lena’s so bitter it fills his mouth with salt. He reaches his hand across the table instead, letting her fingers phase through his hand and catching them when he can.

“It’s more about who you  _ are _ .” She continues, still smarting from the loss of her time. Things were going to get better.

__

 

It’s not like he’s alone. Since deciding to grow the beard in all he has to do is smile and he has people wrapped around his little finger (as long as they don’t work together). Male, female, whatever they want to call themselves Jesse’s not picky, nor is he cruel. He’s just not serious.

“You’re a charming little shit.” Jack says with a laugh, like he doesn’t have the dimples to go with the chiseled jaw or the greying but somehow still attractive hair.

“I’ve had some good teachers.” He says with a wink that gets him shoved against the bar as Jack turns to look back out at the crowd. Gabe hates birthday parties so they throw him one with as many of his family members as they can find. Jack’s an asshole when it comes to payback, and they’ve still got that picture of Jack’s mom tacked to the fridge, proudly showing off baby photos of her boy.

“Cheeky.” He says, like he’s not amused. Like he’s not been staring at Gabe like he’s a man drowning in something he’s not sure he’s allowed. It’s a terrible idea, so Jesse’s all for it. Jack turns back to stare at the shots in front of them instead, sighing sadly. “I'm getting too old for this.”

“Bless your heart.” Jesse downs a shot before he speaks again, a wide grin on his face, hat tipped back. “Pick up your shot, old man. It’s high noon somewhere in the world.”

“That catchphrase is  _ never _ going to work.” Jack laughs as he drinks, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. He looks strangely vulnerable in jeans and a t-shirt, even if he’s done the indiana boy thing of tucking the damn thing into his jeans and wearing an old leather belt.

“Sure it will. I have faith.” His smirk gets his next shot stolen, but he doesn’t really mind. It’s nice, seeing the old man unwind. It’s nicer being able to ignore the creeping of time on all of them, the way Reinhardt’s slowing down, how Ana is thinking about-, well. She didn’t enjoy her work anymore, if she ever had at all. How Gabe’s getting more restless, and Jack’s looking tired.

“You do that, kid.” Jack says, turning again to watch Gabe pretending not to be absolutely delighted that his Abuelita is there. He seems so lost in himself that Jesse finds himself getting up. Giving him a little space.

It’s not like he hasn’t felt that kind of lonely before.

___

Blackwatch gives him something he’s been missing. Jesse’s not a nice person and it’s a relief not to pretend to be every second of the day

“Sometimes, people just need killin’.” He says to Gabe, washing the blood off his hands. Gabriel laughs, leaning back against the wall of the bathroom, head back against the side of the mirror. There’s no point in leaving a trail; bloody handprints are just as telling as a body left in the hallway.

“Have you got that deadeye bullshit down yet?” He sounds distracted, half-listening to his earpiece and half watching the hallway as Jesse finishes cleaning up after himself.

There’s a pool of blood leaking from under the bathroom stall to the left. He’s still getting the hang of  _ subtle _ .

“I was doin’ this long before I met you.” He grinds out, and Gabe’s laugh isn’t so much mocking as amused.

___

Genji is a broken toy full of self loathing and a bitter resentment that makes everyone’s teeth ache.

He’s a sweet kid when he’s not angry, a little naive, mostly convinced that he’s there to atone for his family’s sins. Jesse doesn’t ask too much (doesn’t talk about his own family at all) but Genji talks about a brother who spends all his time being bitter and tired, a father who expects too much and dies too early. The Shimada clan is a problem. Jesse traded some weapons with them, back in the day.

Genji was shredded by the very dragons his family taught him to rely on. Jesse doesn’t pretend to understand magic, ancestral or no, and Angela’s ability to resurrect people borders on witchcraft. He’s Angela’s pet project and Jesse steers so clear he avoids that entire wing of the compound for weeks, more than a little disturbed. Dead stay dead. They’re supposed to.

The tiny, burning twist of hope right behind his lungs makes it hard to sleep at night.

 

___

The thing he likes the most about thursday nights (when he’s not out shooting people)  is helping Fareeha with her homework. She’s old enough now to be asking to join Overwatch and Ana’s insistence that she doesn’t is putting such a strain on their relationship they barely talk anymore.

“Y’know, I never finished high school.” Jesse admits one day, holding one of Fareeha’s math books in his hands, flicking through it idly. Math is easy. It’s all angles and trajectories and money. He can work with those. Anything more ‘arts’ oriented is more difficult.

“Then why are you helping me study?” She asks, matter of fact. She looks so much like her mother (and  _ his _ ) in that moment that he expect’s Ana’s hand upside the head.

“I can’t exactly turn up at the local high school, darlin’.” He retorts, plopping his hat on her head and sniggering at the theatrics she throws getting it off.  It ends up on the other side of the table, the rustling of pages and quiet breathing the only noise for a long while.

“Why doesn’t she want me to join?” Fareeha asks, tucking her hair back behind her ear. She’s a gorgeous girl and Jesse feels something akin to brotherly pride as he contemplates what she’s asking.

He doesn’t know how much Ana’s told her, but he’s not going to lie.

“People die with us, darlin’. Your ma’s just worried about you. She doesn’t want y’to have blood on your hands.”

“That’s not fair, though. There’s other ways to help, other things I could be doing.” She insists, closing her book with a determined thump. “She can’t just assume that I’m going to- That she’s going to-”

“She doesn’t want to lose you.” Jesse says, keeping his eyes on the numbers, watching as they fell into ordered lines.  _ I don’t want to lose you, mijo- _ he hears in the back of his head, muscles all along his back clenching as he hunches a little to avoid thinking about it.

__

The only thing he can think as he stares at the crushed, useless mess of his left hand is that thank fuck it wasn’t his right. The screeching, dragging sound pulls him out of his shock long enough for the pain to set in as the massive rebar laden chunk of concrete and chain is drawn back, the creature holding it somewhere between man and monster. Science creates wonderful things, sometimes.

Reanimated corpses with a fetish for smacking people with half a building’s foundation isn’t one of them. Gabe’s somewhere, hauling himself up a ladder; Jesse's fingers twitch involuntarily and he can feel every grinding second of it. He barely scrambles out of the way as concrete comes careening towards his head, tucking his arm against his chest to dodge and roll. He fires without thinking, bullets smacking into the creature’s shoulder, distracting it enough that Gabe can get right down in it’s face, mouth twisted into a feral grin as he empties a shotgun right into it’s eye socket.

“Death comes.” Gabe shouts with a laugh, riding the creature’s corpse all the way to the ground and rolling off, looking for all the world like a ten year old having the time of his life.  _ Death comes five minutes too damn late _ he thinks, barking a laugh. Jesse’s skin is on fire, his breath short, his-

“Hold on.  _ Pinche pendejo _ .” There’s a hand at his shoulder and Gabe’s gentler than he has any right to be, hauling him to his feet.

__

Amputation is a funny thing. You think you’re feeling something in an arm that’s not there anymore and sometimes his palm itches so much it drives him mad. Angela doesn’t say a word to him when he wakes, her hand gentle on his forehead, keeping his head down so he can't stare at the bandaged stump, at the red splotches still leaking slowly into the crisp, clean cloth.

Getting a new hand wouldn’t be a problem. Jack’d said as much, sitting on the edge of his bed, Jesse’s shoulder shaking a little under his hand. He hadn’t said a lot, awkward and kind of mean around the edges but he cared. He’d said something about Jesse having come a long way and it was probably hard for him to see it if he was the one doing the moving.  

Gabe was mad at him, but it was the kind of angry that felt a little like a warm hand on the back of his neck.

He gets to lounge in bed for two entire days before he loses interest in harassing Angela and actually looking at what she’s doing. Genji comes to sit with him on the second day, talking haltingly about accepting parts of yourself, or at least trying to. He’s an angry kid and Jesse feels for him, he really does. Having your own brother turn around and try to kill you like that’d be a shock for anyone.

“This isn’t remotely the same thing.” He says as Genji determinedly flicks his visor open. “You lost nearly your entire body.”

“You have lost a part of yourself too.” Comes the reply. Jesse sucks in a breath, holds onto it. Squeezes his eyes closed.

For a cyborg, Genji’s arms are surprisingly gentle around his shoulders.

___

“I want you with me.” Gabe says, like he hasn’t just proposed the end of everything. Nearly twenty years of his life. Jesse stares at his hands, flesh and bionic. Makes a decision.

“No.” He thinks about Angela, about Genji. About Lena and Winston and Ana. Reinhardt. Fareeha, who grew up with them teaching her, holding her aloft, letting her fly. He thinks about Jack, with the weight of everything on his shoulders and his dogged persistence in doing things with as little blood as possible.

He thinks about Amelie, about how cold she’d been when they found her. How cold she was now, staring at him in the face, her husband’s blood on her hands and her eyes a level of dead that Jesse didn’t think he’d ever see on someone stil breathing.

“I see.” Gabe says, the finality in his voice tinged with something close to-

Not pain.

No, with disappointment.

“Have you lost your cottonpickin' mind?! You’re gonna take everything we’ve worked for and what? Throw it away? Throw  _ them _ -”

“They’ve thrown  _ us _ away, Jesse! Look around? How much blood is on their hands?” Gabe’s bitter, he knew that but he had no idea,  _ Jack _ would have no idea and this was-

Too close to a jail cell, to a hole in the wall. He clenches his hands, throat tight. Stomach roiling.

“No, Gabe.”

He leaves. Doesn’t  _ say anything _ .

Jack dies, and that’s on him.

__

He doesn’t wallow.

Okay, so maybe he does. Maybe he wallows so much it hurts to breathe, to see the names of people he cares about dragged so far through the mud they’re buried. He wallows in his self-hatred long enough to see a pattern in it. Drinking, self-loathing, drinking, self-loathing. He doesn’t have a cause, doesn’t have a family anymore.

_ What’s with the long face, cowboy? _ He can hear Lena asking, stealing his hat for good measure.  _ What’s with the whole cowboy getup anyway? Ain’t you Americans long past that?  _ She'd given him the belt buckle anyway as a joke. He loves it.

He misses his family, sudden and fierce. His mother, pretending she doesn’t listen to her own mother talking about fate and bad spirits; she’d never believed abuelita, even down to the last moment when she’d-

His father, strong backed and silent. Stern, but not harsh. If he was half the man his father could’ve been he’d be happy.

He’s not.

He’s a coward.

__  
  


The first time he has Peacemaker back in his hands feels like his soul’s come catapulting back into his body. He hasn’t looked at the revolver in months, too busy marinating in his own self-hatred, going from job to job, person to person.  He’s gone from one side of America to the other, down to Mexico and straight through to Brazil before stumbling back again in an effort to make sense of himself. Not so much  _ finding himself _ (thank you, Angela) as trying to escape from himself.

It doesn’t work. There’s-

So much of him missing, so many things he wishes he could say.

The revolver in his hands feels like a promise when he picks it up and he looks down.

Breathes.

  
  



End file.
